Aerosmith & YUNGBLUD
The suits don’t show up on tour unless somebody wants something. Money. Control. A photo op. A reminder that the band is a product before it’s a pulse. Our label rep rolls into our afternoon meeting like he owns the air. Crisp shirt. Teeth too white. A tablet full of numbers he thinks mean more than sweat and sound. He’s got a second guy with him; he’s younger, louder, eager to prove he knows our brand better than we do.
They talk. Cherry nods. Luc stays polite in that lethal, mountain-quiet way he has. Mikey is chewing gum like it’s the only thing keeping him from saying something that’ll get us dropped mid-tour. I’m on the couch with my guitar balanced on my knee, trying to look bored while my skin crawls.
“Orlando performance metrics were great,” Suit #1 says, scrolling. “Engagement spikes, merch conversion up 11%. Atlanta should be a monster for us. But we’ve had a couple fan-forum flags lately. Speculation. You know how it goes.”
Speculation. The word lands like a stone in my gut even though he doesn’t say Luc’s name. Suit #2 grins like he’s about to tell a joke. “You guys are legends for giving the fans something to chew on. Let’s just try and keep any personal entanglements discreet.”
Luc’s jaw tightens. Cherry smiles her manager smile - the one that says you’re on thin ice, try me. Mikey mutters under his breath, “I’ll give you fucking discreet.”
I stare at the coffee table like it’s suddenly fascinating. Entanglements. Discreet. Personal. This is fucking personal, and they aren’t even talking about me. I’m not the front man. I’m not the one tabloid’s chase first. But the second those words hit the room, my brain does what it always does when something feels dangerous and every wire inside pulls taut.
I feel Sadie before I look at her. She’s standing by the side wall with her camera bag, professional as always, listening without listening like she does. But she’s close enough that the suits must’ve noticed her too. Close enough that my body registers her as part of the threat now. And that fucking pisses me off.
Suit #1 keeps rambling. “Just good to stay ahead of the narrative. Fans love mystery, they hate mess. You know?”
Yeah, I know. We all know. We don’t need to be lectured like five-year-olds. We’re all adults. My pulse starts to climb anyway. The minute you let people see what you want, they decide they’re allowed to take it. Or ruin it. Or use it to bleed you dry for entertainment. A dark laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. Low, sharp and not even a little bit friendly.
Suit #2 turns toward me like I’m a novelty. “Something funny, Dean?”
Luc gives me a warning look. But I’m already halfway out of my skin. “Nah,” I respond flatly. “We all just love being told how to behave.”
Suit #1 clears his throat, smoothing. “We’re not telling you how to behave. Just, advising. We all want the same thing.”
“The same thing,” I repeat, and my voice sounds too calm for how hot my blood is. “You want us to perform and act like robots. We want a good show.”
“Both,” he advises brightly. “It’s a partnership.”
Luc speaks, cool and final. “We’re good on advice. Thanks for dropping by.”
The second the suits disappear down the hall, the air in the room changes. Mikey lets out a string of profanity that would make a sailor proud. Hayden rolls his shoulders like he’s shaking something off. Cherry mutters something about “optics” and “my ass.”
Luc doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, calm on the surface, jaw tight enough to crack. And that’s what gets under my skin. “They’re really doing this,” I grumble. “Because you fell in love.”
Luc finally looks at me. There’s something old and tired in his eyes. “They’re doing it because they think mystery sells better than happiness.”
“That’s bullshit,” I snap.
Luc shrugs. “It’s business.”
“No,” I retort, heat flooding my chest. “It’s control.”
Cherry nods once. “And they’re testing boundaries.”
Luc stands. “Then they can test them somewhere else.” He leaves with that quiet finality of his, and I sit there vibrating with anger that isn’t even mine, but feels like it is. Because I know this playbook. I’ve lived it. The moment you choose something real, the world tells you to hide it or lose everything.
I spot Sadie across the room. She isn’t watching me like a threat. She’s watching Luc go. That steadiness is almost too much. I grab my jacket and leave before I say something sharp. I don’t go to the lounge. I don’t go outside. I end up in the dim concrete corridor behind the stage where the cases are stacked and the noise is muffled. I sit on one, twist the cap off a bottle I shouldn’t have grabbed, and take a long pull. It burns. In the absolute best way.
“Dean.”
I don’t jump, but I feel her. Sadie steps into the space like she belongs there. No camera. No armor. Just her. “They were out of line,” she states quietly.
I huff a humorless laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
“They weren’t worried about the band,” she continues. “They were worried about the image.”
“They’re worried about Luc,” I correct. My jaw tightens. “They were worried he stopped playing the role they wrote for him.”
